Red to the Rescue
by aquarianamelia
Summary: Finally, after nearly half a decade of hiding, Jenny Shepard is forced to act when her 'family' is threatened. Slightly AU, because, well, it's set in Season 10. And even though I try, summaries ARE NOT my strong suit.
1. Risen from the Dead

She crossed off the previous day on the calendar. The time was getting nearer.

She looked up at the photos tacked beside it, two on the wall beside the calendar. Probably taken at some stuffy function, after a couple of drinks. Or, if she remembered correctly, at a bar near that function, where they had all snuck off and met up when they had gotten bored in the early hours. One was of herself and Jethro, dancing together, lost together on the floor, standing _too_ close for protocol, but neither of them cared. Her next favourite one was the bar photo. She stood sandwiched between Gibbs and DiNozzo, his arm sneakily around her waist, lazily protective. On her other side was Ziva and DiNozzo, he with an arm around her shoulder, looking smugly satisfied, and she looking as happy as she Jenny had ever seen her. Abby had her arms wrapped around McGee's neck, and they both looked so happy. She wasn't sure which of the two 'couples' reminded her more of Jethro and herself, but they both did, in ways. Ducky and Palmer were there too, chatting about something or other to the side of the photo.

Her 'protection detail' consisted of an over-protective, scratch that, hawk-like Gibbs, who glared at anyone who dared to ask her for a dance all night, until she got her way and pulled him out on the floor, oblivious to the snapping of Abby's camera. That was, until she was shown the photos the next day. She couldn't remember smiling so much at a set of photographs since she had found ones from her childhood.

Sometimes she missed him so badly she couldn't breathe. It was safer this way though, if not just for her, for him and his team too. They were like some kind of disjointed family. Or they had been, at the time. But it was niggling at her that a lot could change in five years.

She wondered if she would be accepted, and would they understand? She did it for them. All of it. But they were all five years older, and maybe, in some cases, wiser. She smiled, thinking of how DiNozzo probably wouldn't have gotten any wiser, or at least she hoped. She also hoped that life hadn't taken little Abby's spark, and that she still hugged as good. She missed her hugs, DiNozzo's bad jokes, Ziva's light-hearted yet dark threats at said jokes, McGee's technical jargon, Ducky's stories, Palmer's political mistakes, hell, she even missed the Glare. But more than that, she missed the Giver of the Glare.

She hadn't been entirely cut off, but she had been kept at an impossible distance. It pissed her off immeasurably that all she had was access via Google search, and she just felt like a stalker that way. She missed having access to files that she needed. All she got were news reports and alerts.

How would they react? How would she react, if she had thought one of them was dead, and then five years later, they waltzed back into her life? It was what was going to happen, either way. They had effectively been dead to her. She was excited and apprehensive all at once. Jesus, she felt like she was going back to school after summer vacation, the butterflies were so bad just thinking about it.

She felt her phone vibrate in the back pocket of her jeans, and she pulled it out subconsciously. It was another e-mail alert. She sighed, vowing that this one would be her last, that after dinner she would adjust her e-mail settings so she could stop torturing herself. It wasn't doing her any good. She reached for her reading glasses, slipping them on.

Her heart skipped a beat as she read the headline; "NCIS rocked by bomb blast at DC headquarters".

She sprinted for the television, her mind racing between "Oh my God, please let them be okay, where's the fucking remote, oh my God, oh my God!" she grabbed the remote, finally, from where she had left it after last night's Law & Order: SVU marathon, behind a sofa cushion, extricated and jammed it at the TV, her pulse racing.

The crawl confirmed her fears; "Many feared injured or dead in NCIS bomb blast. Suspected home-grown terrorist Harper Dearing allegedly involved"

She slumped down on the couch, her head in her hands. This was so unfair, just when she was going to come out of hiding, and someone really threatened her family. She knew she was being selfish, but she didn't care. She was going to stick like glue to this story, and she was going to try to hack into the Pentagon, find out who this Harper Dearing _thing_ was, and she was going to hunt the bastard down and take him out.

She crossed the room and made her way out to the bedroom, where she mercifully still had her Glock. It was going to be in use soon, and she needed to clean it.


	2. Research for Revenge

She sat down heavily at her computer, sighing loudly. This was the only time that she had actually heard of them getting into trouble. God only knew what trouble that they had gotten into in the last five years, the kind of trouble that she had once swept under the carpet. She held her breath, letting it out slowly. Hacking in to a federal agency was definitely on the 'do-not-do-if-you-want-to-remain-alive' list, but this was her family. She had been hidden for long enough, unable to do anything, and things _had_ to change.

The Canadian wind was blowing a gale outside as she typed in the appropriate passwords, smiling like a child on Christmas morning when she got in. She still had it.

Her eyes widened as she read the report. McGee had been injured, a shard of exploded glass stuck in his side. She frowned. He was like the youngest son, constantly trying to prove himself, persistent in trying to hold his own against Tony. She had been so proud of him when his books had gotten published, even if the pseudonyms he had used in the books had left a _lot_ to be desired. She scrolled down further. He had made a full recovery, and had only needed stitches. She felt a weight off her shoulders, and went to check on the others.

Palmer and Ducky had been out of the building at the time, thank God, as their names were not on the 'survivors' or the 'fatalities' list. She would check on them later. She read further down the report, refusing to look at the fatalities list. It was so _wrong_, so unfeeling and cold, to see so many names just gathered under such a final heading, like it was a football team try-out or something positive. But it wasn't.

Her heart, already tense, began to pick up speed when she saw his name, and she read on, barely breathing. Gibbs and Abby were in her lab at the time of the bomb blast, but they _survived._ The word shone out like a beacon of hope in a report of despair. She kept going; _Agent Gibbs and Ms Scuito were taken out shortly after the device detonated and were relatively unharmed, except for some facial lacerations on both. _She let out another sigh of relief. Facial lacerations, she could deal with. They were safe, at least.

She speed-read through the rest of the report, looking for Tony and Ziva's names, and, as she expected, they were right next to each other. In the elevator. _Jesus Christ_, she thought, and her heart started pumping like a jackhammer again. _Who the hell told them it was safe to use the elevator in the event of a terrorist attack?_ She was going to give them a piece of her mind when she saw them. She smiled. At least she was going to see them all again, and wouldn't have to slink around like an online stalker.

She picked up her tall cup of coffee, glancing up at the clock as she swallowed slowly. It was time for her to get her meds from the bathroom, before she forgot. She stood up, stretching, hardly registering how tense she had been, huddled over the laptop's keyboard as she anxiously checked up on them. As she crossed through the small, unassuming apartment, on her way to the bathroom, she suddenly remembered Ducky as she reached the medicine cabinet, and popped her meds on her way back to the computer.

She typed his name in, and her jaw dropped. _Dr Donald 'Ducky' Mallard was not on NCIS grounds on May 15. He was in Florida at the time of the attack, where he suffered a myocardial infarction. _She leaned back in the chair, tilting her head in confusion and worry. _Myocardial infarction… Wasn't that… A heart attack? In Florida?_ _What on earth would Ducky have been doing in Florida? Had he recovered? Maybe Palmer's file would give her some answers_, she pondered, as she typed him in. They were like father and son, after all. She glanced at the clock again, wary of someone catching her. She willed the page to load quicker, as she still had to check up on Harper Dearing.

She was sick of her jaw dropping, and couldn't wait to return the favour. Palmer was _married_? Wow. Things really _had_ changed in five years. Not that Jimmy couldn't get a girl, it's just that she'd have to see it to believe it. She scrolled down, seeing that his wedding date and the subsequent leave for it coincided with the bombing and Ducky's heart attack. Well, that explained it, at least. So, they were all safe, if not entirely unscathed. But at least they were alive.

Time was running out as she typed in Dearing's name, and she made a copy of everything in the file, not knowing if she'd be able to get back or not later. She clicked save just as the screen flickered, the database sensing a foreign computer muscling in on its territory. She crossed her fingers, hoping that it saved in time. She went into her downloaded documents, and there it was.

It was payback time.


	3. Returning Home

"Name, please?" the woman behind the desk droned, barely glancing up. If she hadn't been so nervous, Jenny would have asked the woman when she was getting off her shift, to try and cheer her up, but she was on tenterhooks as it was, so just decided to act cold and aloof. It seemed to be what people used to think of her anyway, that she was a frigid, snooty stuck-up bitch. They had no idea, and never would. But it worked better that way, so she responded, just as coldly, "Elodie Matthews," and handed her ticket to her with a slight flourish. The woman raised her brows at the gesture, but took it anyway. _Some things never change_, Jenny sighed inwardly, and made her way through to the departures lounge, taking out a newspaper as she went.

She hated this business of waiting around for her plane, but she buried her nose in the Metro Edition while she was waiting so that no-one would disturb her. She made sure it was something boring like The Financial Times, so that people would get the picture. She had her phone on standby for a fake call too, just in case. She glanced at her old Tommy Hilfiger watch, anxious and twitchy, and went to the bathroom to avoid all the people.

She walked in the door to the ladies, and put her small carry-on on the counter beside her, missing carrying her weapon at her hip, but it had been impossible to bring from her Canadian bolthole. She had had to leave it behind her, and that really pissed her off, but at least cleaning it had calmed her down enough so that she could formulate a clear plan in her mind. Part of that plan was to get herself a weapon, which would hopefully fall into place when she reached DC.

She looked up at herself in the mirror. Age had taken its toll on her, to a certain extent, but she was still a head-turner. Her hair, which she had hated at the funny length it had been in LA, was now nearly to her elbows and back to her original red, pulled back in a nearly Ziva-esque high ponytail, where the ends, gently curled, reached her shoulders. It covered a multitude of scars and secrets. Her eyes, gently framed by the tiniest of fine lines and with lightly mascaraed lashes, still shone like emeralds, but had obtained a broken-hearted tint, evident also in her smile, which never really reached her eyes anymore.

She was dressed accordingly, in a tight-fitting Burberry Trench coat, bundled up for the sharp winds outside, her dark, well-fitting skinnies tucked into her favourite knee-high, caramel-coloured Oscar De La Renta boots.

She figured she should go for the DC business trip look, so she could blend in better and also so she could fly business class, which would attract less attention. She had only flown coach once, and that was with Jethro, so they hadn't actually spent a lot of time there. They were too busy joining the mile-high club, several times over. In fact, she remembered, grinning, his excuse was that he didn't want to lose his 'premium membership'.

She knew her plan was a long-shot, but she figured she could read Gibbs pretty well and anticipate his moves. Or she used to be able to, anyway. She hoped that _that_ hadn't changed in her absence. She just wished that they wouldn't have to meet up like this, but fate, and more than that, she _knew_, deep in her gut, that it was revenge that kept pulling them together. But this time, she wasn't out for her father, her hero, her best friend. She was out for the blood of the bastard who had _dared _to attempt to harm her family.

She straightened herself up, mentally chastising herself for all the over-thinking that she was doing. She had to stop. She could deal with the fallout later, when she had the time, when Harper Dearing lay dead at her feet. She checked in her holdall for the millionth time, making sure that she had all her files with her. She did, and she also had a couple of duplicates of them on separate USBs and flash drives, placed in her bag and in her person. She also had her false passport and papers, and she read over the name, tracing her index finger over it fondly.

Elodie Matthews. The name had served her well, as it was just the right mix of French and English to not make unnecessary and awkward questions arise. Elodie had been a quiet person, so unlike herself, and had kept to herself in the small suburb of Vancouver where she lived. She was going to miss Beaumont Drive; the people had been friendly yet not overly-inquisitive, which suited her great. She was leaving with a kind of melancholy feeling, but she was so damn used to it, and had been doing it for years. She just pushed it down as she straightened her scarf, listening for her flight on the intercom. This would be the last time she would be leaving, the running was finally over.

As the intercom blared out the announcement for her flight, she got ready to leave, anxious to get a seat away from the other business nuts. She didn't belong here. When she was seated in the plane, it finally sunk in.

She was coming home.

* * *

_A/N: So, Jenny is finally on her way home! The next update might be a little slow, because I'm due back in school on Monday, but I'll see what I can do.*crosses fingers for a snow day* Reviews are really fun for me to read, and they are great encouragement! I know the chapters are a teeny bit short, but hopefully they'll, um, no double-entendre here, but I can't think of any other way to say it...Increase in length? Imma try, people. Imma try. :) Amelia_


	4. Hit the Ground Running

She breezed off the plane, her holdall in hand. Jenny Shepard had never thought that she would be in Dulles Airport again, and even after the mixed memories it gave her, she was happy to be back on the tarmac. Her heels clicked confidently as she looked up at the terminal. The shape had always intrigued her, especially the curve of the ceiling. When she was little, she used to believe that the airhostesses got to take turns using it as a slide, and the memory was a happy one.

Countless others, though, were not nearly as bright. Aged six, holding on to her father, as though her life depended on it, sobbing her heart out. Again at eleven, the same story. On the other side of the fence, leaving on countless trips as Director of NCIS. Returning home, knowing her house would still be an empty shell. She had hated those trips, kissing ass and rubbing shoulders. The only consolation was the great food and the 'generous' budget she awarded herself for putting up with her ass getting grabbed.

She shook her Steve Madden sunglasses off her head, and placed them swiftly on the bridge of her nose. These had been the result of an international navy conference in Germany, where she spent _way _too much time consoling herself afterwards in the KaDeWe, but it was worth it. She hoped that the glasses afforded her enough cover on the sunny May morning.

Jenny had spent a good part of the flight imagining what would happen, concocting countless scenarios in her mind. She had a form plan in her head though, and was itching to act. As she got through customs, and through to the other parts of the terminal, the more relieved she became. Hailing a taxi at the front of the terminal building, she slipped into French and pretended that she had bad English, accenting her words atrociously.

The cab driver paid little attention to her, and for that she was glad. She sure as hell wasn't in the mood to talk. Oblivious to his passenger in the backseat, when a call came through on his Bluetooth headset, which was fastened to the sun visor of the cab, he was loudly telling the guy on the other end, Mikey, she figured his name was, that there was a middle aged French hottie in the backseat, by which time Jenny was shooting daggers at him behind her shades.

She was back in the USA, then.

She made sure that the cabbie dropped her two blocks from her house, so she could stretch her legs, clear her head, and she didn't want _that _creep knowing where she lived. As she walked through Georgetown, she breathed in the fresh summer air, and the savoured the wind blowing in a gentle breeze across her face. The leaves on the trees whispered in that same breeze, and Jenny couldn't shake how surreal she felt.

As she walked down the street, she couldn't help but notice little things that had changed. New colours of paint, Goddamn awful extensions to houses, swing sets that were never there before, and, worst of all, a burnt-out skeleton of a house, right near where-

She stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth falling open in a way that had become a most annoying habit. Her long fingers reached up to cover her lips, and her mind went blank, only one thing ringing in her ears. That's _my _house. _That is my home. _That _was _myhome.

Jenny felt her legs going weak, and she stumbled over to the bench in the park near her home, or what had once been her home, turning her back to it. She couldn't believe it. What the hell had happened? Who had burned down her house? Where was all her stuff gone? Her mind was spinning. She couldn't put it off any longer, and this had just proved, once again, that she was certainly not safe here. She stood up, brushing herself off. She needed to get out of here. There was nothing left for her in Georgetown anymore. She slung her back over her shoulder, taking off at a brisk pace down the street.

There was only one of two places she could go, and only one that would be feasible right now.

And she needed some bourbon, ASAP.


	5. Reliving Memories

As Jenny Shepard walked up the front porch, she reached gently for the door handle, and was unsurprised when it swung open easily. "That _arrogant_ bastard," she thought. 'Still thinks he's invincible.' then, in that case, it was the first thing that she could cross off her 'Things that NEVER, EVER change' list.

Her heels clacked on the hardwood floor, making her wince with the noise, hopping around awkwardly as she struggled to pull them off, just in case. Even though she knew he probably hadn't been home in ages, possibly days, if there was a terrorist on the loose. But there was also the chance that he and the tem had hit a dead end and he was taking it out on a lump of basement-bound timber.

She tip-toed over the hallway, and over toward the basement, cracking the door and stepping through it, onto the tiny, wooden landing and hoping against hope that he wasn't there. She peeked her eyes open slowly, and was looking down on an empty basement. There was no boat, not even a plank to be seen. Even the workbenches, they were all pushed to the side, as if someone had decided to clean it.

That was beyond weird. But she could sense that it was only the beginning of the weirdness escalating around her, like the quiet before the storm. Jenny made her way carefully down the steps, always cautious on them since her first trip, literally, all those years ago.

It was the first time she had been here, with him, after a particularly harrowing case involving a missing teenaged girl. They had found her, but it was apparent that the girl had been damaged, both physically and mentally. But she was alive, at least. That girl wasn't the only one who had changed in that week. Gibbs had too. He had been acting peculiar, more so than usual, if possible, so she decided to check on him.

_He was still married at the time, but 'that woman' as Jenny referred to her, in her head, at least, was away somewhere, on business or something, she wasn't sure, and to be honest, didn't really care. Except for the moment that she realised, just as she caught her heel in a knot in the wooden steps, that they were _alone_, together. Not that they never had been, before, but this case had changed something between them. She let out a little gasp as she left her foot behind her, three or four steps from the bottom. _

_Muscles tensed, his shoulders were hunched over at the skeleton-like frame of the boat that he was working on, his sander clasped between his hands, but it just rested against the boat, not moving. He was thinking too much, about other things. His mind was miles away when she snuck in. Well, if you could call what she was doing sneaking in. He knew it was Jenny, he would know the sound of those heels anywhere, because she still stubbornly wore them, just to prove she could outrun perps and suspects in them. But then, he thought of _her _heels, _his_ stairs, and he turned to warn her, but he saw the look of surprise on her face as she went down funny on the outside of her foot, her ankle rolling out as she lost her balance, told him that he wasn't, as happened all too frequently with Jenny, quick enough, and he reached out to catch her as her face whacked into his chest. _

_Her heel caught on a knotted hole in one of the wooden steps of stairs, and her ankle rolled out and she heard the board, weakened the combination of her weight and pointed pressure of her heels, snap and break behind her, and she 'oofed!' her way into Jethro's chest. She wrinkled her nose, opening her eyes, which she hadn't even realised were closed. At least her nose wasn't broken, it just felt weird. She looked up at him, astonished at how close his face was to hers. Wasn't he just after chest-catching her? What the- suddenly her mind went blank as the back of his hand brushed at her face, brushing her hair away from it. All she could think about was his hand on her face, the other tucked around her torso, just as he had caught her, holding them so close, too close._

_He felt her soft weight against him, as he caught her awkwardly. She looked up, opening her eyes, which were a bright, adrenalized green, framed by her ruffled hair. She smiled shyly. _That_ particular smile. He didn't think. His hand brushed her hair back, his hand turning over as his thumb just barely touched the corner of her mouth. She breathed in sharply, obviously uncomfortable with something. He sensed her discomfort, and pulled her up properly, changing her so that she was standing on her own two feet, instead of leaving her foot jammed awkwardly three steps from the bottom, making her look like some kind of comical protractor angle with the floor._

_She could feel his breath on her face as he pulled her to her feet, a comforting scent of bourbon emanating from his parted lips. He was just so close, she could almost reach out and- no. 'Jenny, no,' A little voice was screaming inside her head, 'he's married, you're his probie, this ISN'T right.' _

_But he answered for her. His lips brushed hers, and he pulled back, almost hesitant. His blue eyes were cobalt with desire, and they hypnotised her, drawing her in. She looked away, shrugging her shoulders in a nonchalant manner. He had instigated it, not her. His hands were still holding her tight, and she turned her face back to his, making her decision. She locked eyes with him and smiled. And then he kissed her, and it was just like the dreams she'd had, only so much better, because it was so much more real and alive. His lips were surprisingly soft, and she loved the taste of bourbon on his lips, his tongue, it was like a drug. _

_She heard the door bang shut above them and they broke abruptly apart, startled. There was only one other person who could possibly be here at this time. 'Shit, Diane!' Gibbs hissed, and shoved Jenny away, where she stumbled, landing embarrassingly on her ass near the broken steps. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped butterfly, mortified at the way he just pushed her away, and could feel a flush spreading up her cheeks. She looked up and behind her, craning her neck as Diane's shadow fell over her from the ground floor landing, adopting a pained look, like she had she had lost her footing. And Diane had believed them. _

When she reached the bottom steps, unscathed, she looked around, and decided he hadn't caught Dearing yet. She would know. Her eyes fell on _the_ step, which was a little different from the others, or it could be her imagination. She smiled when she remembered, in Marseilles, how she, just so hot and bothered in that damn attic, and decided to point out things about him that annoyed her. To his face. She had verbally demolished him, ripping him apart like old stitches off a worn blanket, and it had felt so good. But it had been even better 'making up'. He had calmly explained to her his reasons for being so rough, and then showed her just how gentle he could be. Not before he pointed out to her the things she did that annoyed him, though.

But that was just the way they worked, in sync, yet at the same time, fiercely independent.

* * *

_Longer chapter, to compensate for the absence of an update. Might take me a while to update this next weekend, because of St Patrick's day. But, hopefully, you'll get to see where, when and (most importantly) what happens when Jenny meets the team! And will she meet them before or after Dearing is 'taken care of'? I'm not going to say tune in next week to find out, but like, if you want to... it will probably be next week or the week after. _

_Amelia :)_

_PS. For next week, Lá Fhéile Phadraig! [Law*Fay*Lah*Paw*Dreg*] _

_(That's Happy Paddy's day)( in Irish!) _


	6. Reallyno name for this

She couldn't believe where she was. This was _so _not how she had planned to return to NCIS; folded up in the bed of Gibbs's old pickup, under the tarpaulin cover like some sneaky teenager. She was exhausted after her cross-country trip, and she was still on edge, but it felt good. She almost felt like she was undercover again; she was feeling the same buzz of adrenaline in her veins.

From what she had been able to gather from Gibbs' ancient computer, news reports said that the armoury part of the building had been one of the worst hit places. Chances were, with Vance in charge, the damage caused had been a hell of a lot worse, but he was just doing what he'd always done; dealing with the problem. Just like she had tried to do.

She felt a little stab of jealousy at this; that he had been there for them, not her. But it was more than jealousy; it was guilt. The kind that you felt in your gut, the kind she hadn't ever gotten rid of. Not since Paris, even. In her darkest moments she had wondered if coming back was even a good idea, or would it just do more harm than good? She brushed her worries to the corner of her mind, needing to focus.

It was getting kind of stuffy under the tarpaulin, and she was waiting for Gibbs to jerk back the cover and find her there. That would be awkward, to say the least. It was two days after she had arrived back, two days to leave her with her thoughts and fears and more than enough bourbon. But she couldn't excessively drown her sorrows, she knew that. Not with her meds. She was still on a case, of sorts. She had hidden all but her essential things, which were in a bag which she had slung over her shoulder.

Two days during which she found out that cheap weapons, despite what she had tried to instigate during her time as director of NCIS, were still so easy to get, once you had something to offer. She sighed inwardly at the thought, and felt just so hypocritical, but she would do what she had to do, in case her armoury plan fell through. Some 'director' she had become, becoming part of something she despised so, reduced to nothing better than trading her cash for a cheap Glock that had probably killed half a dozen people already.

But whatever, it was going in the 'deal with later' box, along with other stuff. Where it would probably fester and deteriorate, until it finally culminated in- stop. Stop. STOP. She shook her head, trying to clear out the thoughts. Shit was going to really start getting even more real, now that the invisible safety line or barrier, the one that kept them safe and away from her was gone.

That is what was really niggling at her. What if her return only put them in more danger? Some issues, like the ones that had driven her away into hiding in the first place, were still unresolved. And that bothered her, because it was not something that she could compartmentalise. There was no box for this bitch, it was staring her right in the face. She was sick and tired of it. Choices and wrong moves, bad decisions that had seemed the best at the time, they were always there, just waiting until she fell asleep, or when she looked in the mirror.

Her father's choices had haunted her, her rookie mistakes had followed her home. And now, one of her biggest mistakes as Director was hanging over her head. And she didn't want to think about it. But she couldn't help herself. When she closed her eyes, she saw blue eyes filled with hurt and anger, but above all, she saw what she had seen in herself when her father had been murdered; thirst for revenge.

She and Jeanne were more alike than she would have liked. She had created another monster, one outside herself. She had destroyed her, all because of her desire for vengeance. She had been young, though not exactly naïve, when it all started, years before Jeanne was even conceived. It wasn't the girl's fault; it was simply her father, and she had been a casualty. No matter how many times Jenny told herself that though, it never made it easier.

When she had fled across the border, it had been in an almost comatose trance of loneliness and grief. But that was probably the pain meds. Jenny touched her shoulder, her fingers brushing the shiny skin, letting her hand trail down to her ribs, where two more scars lay. They, along with 'the illness' as she liked to call it, had nearly ended her.

As he took a sharp turn, the jerk of the pickup's tyres against the sidewalk lurched her sideways in the bed, and she winced, rolling around on loose pieces of timber, that were mercifully dry. It made her smile. He still took the same route to work, and he still took it as if he was a fugitive on the run.

She waited. And waited. And then, just to be sure, she waited a little longer. Over-cautious was not a word she would use in this situation; paranoid seemed _much _more appropriate. They were inside, that much she figured. Which was odd, even for him. But, she reasoned, it was the pickup, which didn't exactly qualify as a perp-chasing vehicle. As she lay in the bed of the pickup, a thought occurred to her. Since the bombing, wouldn't security have tightened? How the hell would she get in?

And then it occurred to her; something that would definitely have _no _cameras, fo'sure. Something that had appeared in her dreams when she was director, and often still did.

_The Elevator._


End file.
